Part 4

King John, very well knowing that Hubert would never do it, but that he evasively sent this reply to save the prince or gain time, despatched messengers to convey the young prisoner to the castle of Rouen. Arthur was soon forced from the kind Hubert--of whom he had never stood in greater need than then--carried away by night, and lodged in his new prison; where, through his grated window, he could hear the deep waters of the river Seine rippling against the stone wall below.

One dark night, as he lay sleeping, dreaming, perhaps, of rescue by those unfortunate gentlemen who were obscurely suffering and dying in his cause, he was roused, and bidden by his jailor to come down the staircase to the foot of the tower. He hurriedly dressed himself, and obeyed. When they came to the bottom of the winding-stairs, the jailor trod upon his torch, and put it out. Then Arthur, in the darkness, was hurriedly drawn into a solitary boat; and in that boat he found his uncle and one other man.

He knelt to them, and prayed them not to murder him. Deaf to his entreaties, they stabbed him, and sank his body in the river with heavy stones. When the spring morning broke, the tower-door was closed, the boat was gone, the river sparkled on its way, and never more was any trace of the poor boy beheld by mortal eyes.

_Word Exercise._

Seine (_sān_) Fă-lāise´ (_lāz_) ruffians (_rŭf´yans_) accession (_ak-sesh´un_) Geoffrey (_jĕf´re_) besieged (_be-sējd_) dungeons (_dŭn´juns_) tour´na-ment (_toor-_ or _tur-_) Mirebeau (_meer´bō_) usurping (_yū-zurp´ing_) treachery (_trĕch´er-e_) acknowledge (_ak-nŏl´ej_) Nor´man-dy mĕs´sen-gers

_Phrase Exercise._

1. Detestable villain.--2. _Declared in favor_ of Arthur.--3. Ambitious schemes.--4. Heartlessly sacrificed his interests.--5. Full of _stratagem_.--6. Inhumanly treated.--7. Took _secret counsel_.--8. Arthur _pathetically entreated_.--9. The _chafed_ and _disappointed_ king.--10. _To despatch_ Arthur.--11. _Evasively_ sent this _reply_.--12. He prayed them.--13. Solitary boat.

XVI.--A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white, and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee!

“O for a soft and gentle wind!” I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free,-- The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.

There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud! The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free,-- While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

* * * * *

_An idler is a watch that wants both hands,_ _As useless if it goes as if it stands._

--_Cowper._

XVII.--WE ARE SEVEN.

WORDSWORTH.

A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair: Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little maid, flow many may you be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And wondering, looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet you are seven!--I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little maid reply, “Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree.”

“You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then you are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The little maid replied, “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit-- I sit and sing to them.

“And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away.

“So in the churchyard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you, then,” said I, “If they two are in heaven?” The little maiden did reply, “O master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!” ’Twas throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, “Nay, we are seven.”

XVIII.--THE HIPPOPOTAMUS.

Of all the ugly-looking animals the hippopotamus is certainly one of the ugliest. Its name means the river-horse, and was given it because it is generally found either in rivers or their neighborhood, but the hippopotamus is nothing like a horse, either in its form or its habits.

Though it rarely exceeds five feet in height, it is of vast bulk, and, when full grown, will weigh, it is said, as much as four or five oxen. The head is of enormous size, and provided with a mouth of alarming width. The skin, which is of a dark color and thinly covered with short white hairs, is, in places, nearly two inches thick. The feet are large and divided into four parts, each of which is protected by a hoof.

The hippopotamus lives entirely upon vegetable food, of which it eats vast quantities, as much as six bushels of grass having been found in its stomach. But it is not so much the amount of food which it consumes, as what it destroys, that makes the African dread its visits to the standing crops. Its body is so huge and its legs are so short that it tramples down far more than it eats. It is provided with a tremendous array of teeth, some of which weigh from five to eight pounds. With these it cuts down the grass and shrubs on which it lives as if they were mown with a scythe.

The hippopotamus, in spite of its awkward form, is an excellent swimmer and diver, and can remain under water for as much as ten minutes. During the first few months of its life the young hippopotamus is carried upon its mother’s neck. When born it is not much larger than a terrier dog.

The hippopotamus is caught in various ways. Sometimes several pitfalls, having sharp stakes at the bottom, are dug across the path which it pursues. In the darkness of the night it falls into one of these, and is impaled on the stakes. This is a very cruel mode of capture, and it is to be hoped that the natives who employ it, soon put the poor animal out of its misery. It is not easy to shoot it fatally, for, once it is alarmed, it does not readily show itself. It just pushes up its nostrils above the water to take in air, often selecting for this purpose some spot where the reeds conceal its movements, and then sinks again. Sometimes the hippopotamus is harpooned like a whale. As soon as it is struck with the harpoon the hunters fasten the line round a neighboring tree, and so hold their prey tight until it is despatched. Or, if there is no time for them to get to land, they throw the line, with a buoy attached to it, into the water. The hippopotamus is then pursued in canoes, and every time it rises to the surface it is pierced with javelins, until, at length, it dies from loss of blood. This is dangerous sport, for it sometimes turns upon the hunters and crushes in or capsizes their canoes. Once a hippopotamus, whose calf had been speared on the previous day, attacked a boat in which was Dr. Livingstone. She struck it with such violence that the forepart was lifted clean out of the water, one of the negro boatmen was thrown into the river, and the whole crew were forced to jump ashore.

Between the skin and the flesh is a layer of fat, which is considered a great delicacy. The flesh also is very good eating. The hide is made into shields, whips, and walking-sticks. The teeth yield a beautiful white ivory, which is much valued on account of its never losing color.

_Word Exercise._

buoy (_bwoi_) pit´falls javelins (_jăv´lĭns_) e-nor´mous ter´ri-er har-pooned´ scythe pierced nŏs´trils neighborhood (_nā´bur-_) i´vo-ry mĭs´er-y hĭp-po-pot´a-mus

_Phrase Exercise._

1. Either in its _form_ or its _habits_.--2. Rarely exceeds.--3. Vast bulk.--4. Alarming width.--5. Lives entirely upon vegetable food.--6. Food which it _consumes_.--7. Tremendous array.--8. Awkward form.--9. _Impaled_ on the stakes.--10. Cruel mode of capture.--11. Shoot it _fatally_.--12. The reeds _conceal its movements_.--13. The hunters fasten the line.--14. Dangerous sport.--15. _Capsizes_ their canoes.--16. Lifted _clean_ out of the water.--17. Considered a delicacy.

XIX.--A BRIGHT BOY.

PROF. J. S. BLACKIE.

Bill is a bright boy; Do you know Bill? Marching cheerily Up and down hill; Bill is a bright boy At books and at play, A right and a tight boy, All the boys say.

His face is like roses In flush of the June; His eyes like the welkin, When cloudless the noon; His step is like fountains That bicker with glee, Beneath the green mountains, Down to the sea.

When Bill plays at cricket, No ball on the green Is shot from the wicket So sharp and so clean; He stands at his station As strong as a king When he lifts up a nation On Victory’s wing.

When bent upon study, He girds to his books; No frown ever ploughs The smooth pride of his looks; I came, and I saw, And I conquered at will: This be the law For great Cæsar and Bill.

Like Thor with the hammer Of power in his hand, He rides through the grammar Triumphant and grand; O’er bastions and brambles Which pedants up-pile, He leaps and he ambles Along with a smile.

As mild as a maiden, Where mildness belongs,-- He’s hot as Achilles, When goaded by wrongs; He flirts with a danger, He sports with an ill, To fear, such a stranger Is brave-hearted Bill!

For Bill is a bright boy-- Who is like Bill? Oft have I marched with him Up and down hill. When I hear his voice calling, I follow him still, And, standing or falling, I conquer with Bill!

* * * * *

_Do good by stealth and blush to find it fame._

--_Pope._

XX.--AFTER BLENHEIM.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar’s work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh: “’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he, “Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the garden, For there’s many here about; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in that great victory.”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,” Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder-waiting eyes; “Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.”

“It was the English,” Kaspar cried, “Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said,” quoth he, “That ’twas a famous victory.

“My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won, And our good Prince Eugene.” “Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!” Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay--nay--my little girl,” quoth he “It was a famous victory.

“And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.” “But what good came of it at last?” Quoth little Peterkin. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But ’twas a famous victory.”

_Word Exercise._

fa´mous vĭc´to-ry Kas´par quōth (or _kwŭth_) shock´ing nat´u-ral (_-yu_) Eu-gēne´ Wil´hel-mine (_mēn_) Pe´ter-kin rĭv´u-let plough´share Blĕn´heĭm ex-pĕct´ant

XXI.--THE BLACK DOUGLAS.

King Edward I. of England, commonly known as “Longshanks,” nearly conquered Scotland. It was from no lack of spirit or energy that he did not quite complete his troublesome task, but he died a little too soon. On his death-bed he called his pretty, spiritless son to him, and made him promise to carry on the war; he then ordered that his bones should be wrapped up in a bull’s hide, and carried at the head of the army in future campaigns against the Scots. Edward II. soon forgot his promise to his father, and spent his time in dissipation among his favorites, and allowed the resolute Scots to recover Scotland.

Good James, Lord Douglas, was a very wise man in his day. He may not have had long shanks, but he had a very long head, as you shall presently see. He was one of the hardest foes with which the two Edwards had to contend, and his long head proved quite too powerful for the second Edward, who, in his single campaign against the Scots, lost at Bannockburn nearly all that his father had gained.

The tall Scottish castle of Roxburgh stood near the border, lifting its grim turrets above the Teviot and the Tweed. When the Black Douglas, as Lord James was called, had recovered castle after castle from the English, he desired to gain this stronghold, and determined to accomplish his wish. But he knew it could be taken only by surprise, and a very wily affair it must be. He had outwitted the English so many times that they were sharply on the look out for him.

How could it be done?

’Tis an old Yule-log story, and you shall be told.

Near the castle was a gloomy old forest, called Jedburgh. Here, just as the first days of spring began to kindle in the sunrise and the sunsets, and warm the frosty hills, Black Douglas concealed sixty picked men.

It was Shrove-tide, and Fasten’s Eve, immediately before the great Church fast of Lent, was to be celebrated with song and harp and a great blaze of light, and free offerings of wine in the great hall of the castle. The garrison was to have leave for merry-making and indulging in drunken wassail.

The sun had gone down in the red sky, and the long, deep shadow began to fall on Jedburgh woods, the river, the hills, and valleys. An officer’s wife had retired from the great hall, where all was preparation for the merry-making, to the high battlements of the castle, in order to quiet her little child and put it to rest. The sentinel, from time to time, paced near her. She began to sing:--

“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye! Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye; The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”

She saw some strange objects moving across the level ground in the distance. They greatly puzzled her. They did not travel quite like animals, but they seemed to have four legs.

“What are those queer-looking things yonder?” she asked of the sentinel as he drew near.

“They are Farmer Asher’s cattle,” said the soldier, straining his eyes to discern the outlines of the long figures in the shadows. “The good man is making merry to-night, and has forgotten to bring in his oxen; lucky ’twill be if they do not fall a prey to the Black Douglas.”

So sure was he that the objects were cattle, that he ceased to watch them longer.

The woman’s eye, however, followed the queer-looking cattle for some time, until they seemed to disappear under the outer works of the castle. Then feeling quite at ease, she thought she would sing again. Spring was in the evening air; and, perhaps, it was the joyousness of spring which made her sing.

Now, the name of the Black Douglas had become so terrible to the English that it was used to frighten the children, who, when they misbehaved, were told that the Black Douglas would get them. The little ditty I have quoted must have been very quieting to good children in those alarming times.

So the good woman sang cheerily:--

“Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye! Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye: The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”

“Do not be so sure of that,” said a husky voice close beside her, and a mail-gloved hand fell solidly upon her shoulder. She was dreadfully frightened, for she knew from the appearance of the man he must be the Black Douglas.

The Scots came leaping over the walls. The garrison was merry making below, and, almost before the disarmed revellers had any warning, the Black Douglas was in the midst of them. The old stronghold was taken, and many of the garrison were put to the sword; but the Black Douglas spared the woman and the child, who probably never afterwards felt quite so sure about the little ditty:--

“Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye: The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”

Douglas had caused his picked men to approach the castle by walking on their hands and knees, with long black cloaks thrown over their bodies, and their ladders and weapons concealed under their cloaks. The men thus presented very nearly the appearance of a herd of cattle in the deep shadows, and completely deceived the sentinel, who was probably thinking more of the music and dancing below, than of the watchful enemy who had been haunting the gloomy woods of Jedburgh.

The Black Douglas, or “Good James, Lord Douglas,” as he was called by the Scots, fought, as you will afterwards read, with King Robert Bruce at Bannockburn. One lovely June day, in the far-gone year of 1329, King Robert lay dying. He called Douglas to his bedside, and told him that it had been one of the dearest wishes of his heart to go to the Holy Land, and recover Jerusalem from the Infidels; but since he could not go, he wished him to embalm his heart after his death, and carry it to the Holy City, and deposit it in the Holy Sepulchre.

Douglas had the heart of Bruce embalmed and enclosed in a silver case, and wore it on a silver chain about his neck. He set out for Jerusalem, but resolved first to visit Spain and engage in the war waged against the Moorish king of Granada. He fell in Andalusia, in battle. Just before his death he threw the silver casket into the thickest of the fight, exclaiming, “Heart of Bruce, I follow thee or die!”

His dead body was found beside the casket, and the heart of Bruce was brought back to Scotland and deposited in the ivy-clad Abbey of Melrose.

Douglas was a real hero, and few things more engaging than his exploits were ever told under the holly and mistletoe, or in the warm Christmas light of the old Scottish Yule-logs.

_Word Exercise._

Te´vi-ot rĕv´el-lers weapons (_wĕp´pns_) Jedburgh (_jĕd´bŭr-rŭh_) wassail (_wŏs´sil_) Andalusia (_an-da-lu´she-a_) haunting (_hänt´ing_) Roxburgh (_rŏx´bŭr-rŭh_) Doŭg´las Sepulchre (sĕpul-ker) Mel-rōse´ găr´ri-son (_-sn_) dĭs-si-pa´tion Gra-nä´dä Je-rū´sa-lĕm Ban´nock-burn

XXII.--BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

ELIZA COOK.

King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down in a lonely mood to think; ’Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, but his heart was beginning to sink, For he had been trying to do a great deed to make his people glad, He had tried and tried, but couldn’t succeed, and so he became quite sad.

He flung himself down in low despair, as grieved as man could be; And after a while as he pondered there, “I’ll give it all up,” said he. Now just at the moment a spider dropped, with its silken cobweb clew, And the king in the midst of his thinking stopped to see what the spider would do.

’Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome, and it hung by a rope so fine, That how it would get to its cobweb home, King Bruce could not divine. It soon began to cling and crawl straight up with strong endeavor, But down it came, with a slipping sprawl, as near to the ground as ever.

Up, up it ran, not a second it stayed, to utter the least complaint, Till it fell still lower, and there it lay, a little dizzy, and faint. Its head grew steady--again it went, and travelled a half yard higher, ’Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, and a road where its feet would tire.

Again it fell and swung below, but again it quickly mounted, Till up and down, now fast, now slow, nine brave attempts were counted. “Sure,” cried the king, “that foolish thing will strive no more to climb, When it toils so hard to reach and cling, and tumbles every time.”

But up the insect went once more, ah me, ’tis an anxious minute, He’s only a foot from his cobweb door, oh, say will he lose or win it? Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, higher and higher he got, And a bold little run at the very last pinch, put him into his native spot.

“Bravo, bravo!” the king cried out, “all honor to those who try; The spider up there defied despair, he conquered, and why shouldn’t I?” And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, and gossips tell the tale, That he tried once more as he tried before, and that time he did not fail.

Pay goodly heed, all you who read, and beware of saying. “I can’t,” ’Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead to Idleness, Folly, and Want. Whenever you find your heart despair of doing some goodly thing, Con over this strain, try bravely again, and remember the Spider and King.

_Word Exercise._

ceil´ing (_sēl´ing_) gŏs´sips idleness (_ī´dl-nĕs_) travelled (_trăv´eld_) grieved (_grēvd_) anx´ious (_angk´shus_) mon´arch (_mon´ark_) endeavor (_en-dĕv´or_) pŏn´dered

_Phrase Exercise._